


Ninth Gate

by providenx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Charter Magic, F/M, Implied Anders/Female Hawke - Freeform, Inquisitor Sabriel, Memory Loss, Multi, POV Multiple, Unreliable Narrator, the crossover nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/providenx/pseuds/providenx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Sabriel can remember is scrambling up a steep slope, fleeing a horde of Dead Hands, reaching, reaching... before that: the chill of an unnatural fog, poisoned water, and a song. The only way to go is forward: lead them, or fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Marks

**Author's Note:**

> If you're new to this fic, welcome! If you're returning, I'd like to kindly draw your attention to the entirety of the story, as I've rewritten all of it :) currently in want of a beta/editor. message me here or on tumblr (providenx) and we can talk!

There is a guard posted at the door, and another two are stationed the end of the hall by the stairs. The Seeker had seemed occupied with different emergencies, but Solas doesn’t expect that to last if she catches wind that the mysterious elven apostate has vanished. She has threatened his life once already; he doesn’t doubt she would make good on her word.

But the prisoner is dying, and there doesn’t seem to be any recourse. The local herbalist might as well be useless, for all that poultices can do anything to amend the situation. And Solas’ own efforts have been futile: the mark has refused to cooperate with him, and its bearer isn’t going to wake up, let alone _live_. With a savage gesture Solas stands and paces the tiny cell, tries to avoid looking at the human woman lying on the only cot in the room. He tries to block out the sound of her labored breathing, of the crackling energy of the mark, tries to calm his heartrate. All his plans have gone to shit.

“Serah!” the guard at the door cries, pointing to the woman in alarm. Solas whirls as the mark flares and its host convulses. He presses her shoulders into the cot with all his weight.

“Restrain her legs!” he orders in a clipped tone, and the guard hesitates only briefly before complying. He sends his magic directly to the mark, trying to assume its burden himself. But with every effort it only burrows deeper, grasping into the woman’s life force. She gasps, and goes limp. The guard looks to Solas for instruction, but he in turn is focused intently on the woman’s left hand. In fact, he would have never acknowledged the guard again – called Timmon by his mother – were it not for the lad’s sudden, startled shriek, and hasty retreat.

“What,” he snaps, not looking up, his ears flat against his skull.

“She- She's a- a mage,” Timmon stutters.

 _Ignorant fools_. “And what of it?”

Timmon points a shaking hand, trying to slip between the cell bars ineffectually. After a delay in which no further attempt at speech is made, Solas looks at the guard, then at his patient, and sees that in his preoccupation the woman has begun to frost over, her lips turning blue. Her hand in his, cold from the first, is now frigid. A cool mist radiates from her – likely what has disturbed the guard so profoundly. Solas places a hand on the woman’s sternum and he can feel her life force fleeing her.

“Fenedhis!” he swears. He gathers all his remaining energy and inundates her with it. The flow of healing magic is nearly blinding – Timmon shields his eyes – but Solas merely focuses his will, pulling at raw mana to bolster his diminished strength, leeching energy from everything that can spare it: from the Lifeward lodged with poor craftsmanship into the amulet hiding beneath Timmon's jerkin, to the faint shadows of old and dormant magic, lost like dust in the corners and creases that had formed in this place since before the Chantry had even existed. He didn't seek to call on any spirits for aid; the Breach was an abomination, capable of twisting even the most benevolent of natures. Yet as he digs deep he unintentionally steps one foot into the Fade, and for a brief but disturbing moment he finds his spirit displaced. He looks down. Cold water tugs his ankles; the current is vigorous and insistent. There is a silhouette some distance in front of him. He lifts a hand, but the figure turns to face him unbidden. Dark eyes meet his own. In the waking world, his patient murmurs to herself fitfully, and he is dragged back into his body by the hand grasping blindly to his own. Her left hand, the marked hand, clutches his right with surprising strength, and though her eyelids flutter restlessly she does not open them. The vision is gone. The prisoner is still alive, for now.

Solas blinks back tears as his eyes adjust; the tide of healing magic slows now to a trickle, then ceases all together. The room is warming again, the unnatural chill receding. Solas breathes heavily, staring without seeing the hand still cradled between his own, while Timmon gapes open-mouthed behind him.

At last he stands, placing the marked hand carefully on the cot. “I must rest,” he announces. “Find me if she begins to seize again.” Without waiting for confirmation, he leaves the cell. Timmon, now left alone with a mage and still hiding in the corner, blanches.

* * *

When Cassandra was finally informed that the prisoner was conscious, she couldn’t have said what she expected. The pale, somber woman kneeling in the center of the cell block is not it. She has her thick black hair cut short, curling up around her jawline in a way that makes her look harsh and wild. Her eyes are shadowed and unreadable.

“Explain this,” Cassandra demands, kicking lightly at the manacles that bind the prisoner’s hands in front of her.

“I- I can't,” she stutters. Her accent is cultured and crisp, but not from a region that Cassandra can immediately identify. The mark sputters sickly to life as if invoked, and Cassandra catches Leliana’s eye. The prisoner makes no effort to disguise her pain and horror.

“Do you remember what happened?” Leliana asks.

“I remember…running. Things were...chasing me, and… a woman?”

“A woman?” Cassandra has heard the rumors, but surely not. It couldn’t be.

“And before that?” Leliana prompts. “Why did you attend the Conclave?”

“The what?” the prisoner asks, voice breaking slightly. “I can’t remember… there was…we were…on a boat? We came into the city, I remember…the Sign of Three Lemons. The Dead were – my father!” she looks up, her eyes wide and shining and earnest. “I _must_ find my father!”

Cassandra and Leliana exchange another look. “That will have to wait, I’m afraid,” Leliana says gently.

“What happens now?” the woman asks in a small voice. Cassandra sighs.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. We will meet you there.” The Left Hand nods, and hands her the key to the prisoner's manacles. She exits as soundlessly as she arrived.

“I can promise you a trial,” Cassandra says, unchaining her as she speaks. “Beyond that, nothing more.”

“What _did_ happen?” the woman asks. She rubs her wrists vigorously and flexes her left hand before Cassandra binds her hands again with rope.

Cassandra sighs again, heavily this time. “It…will be easier to show you.” She leads the prisoner up from the dungeons into the Chantry, ignoring the weight of eyes on them both.

“What is that?” the prisoner whispers, awestruck as she gazes upon the Breach. The full light brings her features into sharp relief; she shields her eyes with her bound hands. A great roaring boom echoes through the mountain pass and the prisoner’s mark flares with it, dropping her to her knees. She looks to Cassandra with growing fear as she finally realizes the implications.

“We call it the Breach.” Cassandra tells her, crouching to where the woman kneels in the snow cradling her left hand. “It grows steadily, as does your mark. And it is killing you. If we cannot stop it, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

“You still think I did this!” the woman asks, verging on hysteria. “To myself?!”

“Not…on purpose. Something clearly went wrong.”

Tears begin to well up in the prisoner’s eyes, but she blinks them back. “And if I do what you want? Will I live through it?”

“We have no way of knowing,” Cassandra admits. They leave Haven as surreptitiously as possible, but everyone knows what the Seeker looks like after all this time, and the bound prisoner she escorts can only be the woman from the temple. Word is travelling fast. Jeering follows them out of town, but at least no one is throwing any vegetables, rotten or otherwise. It was hard enough to get supplies up in this region. Outside the gates, fires are burning. Cassandra cuts the rope, freeing the woman in a show of good faith, and leads them into the unknown. Tension grips the very air. The people they pass now ignore the pair completely as they flee the chaos with a single-minded determination. The Breach grows again, and the mark flares angrily between them. The prisoner collapses mid-stride, a cry of pain pulled through clenched teeth.

“The pulses are coming faster now,” Cassandra observes. She kneels and helps the woman to stand again. “We must hurry.”

Nonetheless, they proceed with more caution than speed. The prisoner is fit and has good stamina, but is plainly exhausted. She is able to keep to a moderate pace without losing her breath, and they speak a little as they proceeded, Cassandra mostly fielding questions she doesn’t have answers for. Abruptly, the Breach expands, spewing projectiles, and the bridge collapses beneath their feet. Falling onto the frozen pond beneath them is painful, but nothing seems to have been broken. She shakes her head, trying to reorient herself. The ice in front of her begins to glow green. Maker… Well, it was bound to happen. They were lucky there was only one.

“Stay behind me!” Cassandra yells, tightening the straps of her shield on her arm. She draws her sword as a misshapen arm seeks leverage on the ice. A hideous, dark form hauls itself up with considerable strength. She braces her shield against the demon's powerful first strike, then swings her sword with alacrity, underhanded, right into the demon's unprotected flank. The thing recoils, then swings a heavy, clawed arm at her head in retaliation. She jerks to the side, and the blow misses her face but still glances off her shoulder. The next sweep of her blade does critical damage, piercing through skin or hide or whatever demons made themselves out of. Ichor bursts forth, and the demon’s corporeal form dissolves, its spirit essence called back through the Breach into the Fade.

She turns to see the prisoner thrust a sword – who gave her a sword?! – through a second demon. She doesn’t react to the putrid ichor, her brows drawn in a stern expression. She neatly withdraws her blade and swings it overhand to remove the thing's head from its body. It, too, dissolves, shrieking its displeasure. She is already cleaning the blade, wiping her sword on her shirtsleeve using the bend of her elbow. _Who gave her a sword?_

“Disarm yourself, prisoner!” the Seeker demands, brandishing her own blade, still dripping ichor. The prisoner glares back with a great deal more spirit than she had previously displayed.

“It attacked me!” she exclaims. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You don’t need to fight!”

The woman laughs, a short and derisive bark that conveys neither joy nor humor. “Are you saying it won't happen again?”

That draws Cassandra up short. She blinks, and lowers the point of her sword. Drops of ichor sizzle in the snow. “You’re right,” she admits, responding to the prisoner’s surprised expression. “The way is dangerous, and you should be able to defend yourself.”

The prisoner nods once, slowly. Grateful, but wary. She sheathes her blade and smooths a palm over her sternum in a strange nervous gesture.

“I should remember that you agreed to come willingly,” Cassandra says, watching the woman – a girl, really, so young now that she looked closely. She observes the slight tremor in her hands, the dark circles under her eyes. “Take this.”

The girl takes the restorative potion gingerly, but sips it readily enough after watching Cassandra drink one of her own. The healing herbs clear her head even as the ache in her shoulder begins to diminish.

* * *

The battle is in its fifth wave and shows no signs of ending when the Seeker finally joins them. She announces her arrival with a bellowed challenge that draws the attention of the remaining three shades, giving them all the brief opportunity to catch their breath and wipe their brows. Solas casts a barrier around the Seeker before quickly gathering the excess mana from the field, hoarding all he can in preparation for the next wave. He is so indiscriminate that he brushes through the aura without thought at first, until he recognizes his own power. The shock makes him open his eyes; his heart stutters a beat before he steels it. He knows Cassandra's companion only by virtue of the mark – he has to use both eyes and magic to find her. He has practically memorized the whorl of her fingerprint, the lines and calluses of her palm and fingers, but he would not have known her face. He finds her on Cassandra’s right flank, picking off demons like a rogue while the Seeker holds their focus. Her expression is set, determined, and she wields a longsword but no shield. Where she had acquired the weapon was anyone’s guess. Solas' initial assessment was that it had likely not been Cassandra’s plan to arm the woman who appeared to have single-handedly destroyed the Conclave.

The woman decapitates the second shade, removing a hand in the same strike, just as Lady Cassandra pierces the third and final demon through the heart. The unholy shriek causes several winces, but Solas wastes no time. He steps through the Fade to the prisoner’s side.

“Quickly!” he yells, grabbing her wrist before she has time to react. “Before more come through!” He thrusts her palm skyward toward the rift. Like calls to like, and where the initial Breach had flung all the other rifts open like a shatterpoint, the mark on the prisoner’s hand was the only aid the Veil would suffer. A great jet of energy springs forth from the mark, and Solas keeps her steady through the tremors. Finally the rift is slammed shut, and Solas releases his grip on the woman. She reclaims her hand with a gasp, but seems more interested in the power she must have just felt than in taking the elf who had handled her so brutishly to task.

“What did you do?” she demands. Her voice is low, yet musical in its delivery. Even and clear.

“I did nothing,” Solas denies. “The credit is yours.”

“This mark,” she clarifies, determined to make the distinction.

“As you wish,” he allows. “Whatever magic opened the Breach also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized that the mark would be able to close the rifts that have opened on the Breach's wake – and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra says, eyes lighting up as she approaches. Solas notes that it is the first time she has indicated any approval for that plan, but solid proof can be a compelling argument for anyone.

“Possibly,” he agrees. He turns back to the woman, who is dreadfully pale even against the snowy peaks. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know,” the dwarf interjects. “Here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever. Varric Tethras,” he announces, presenting his hand. The prisoner shakes it easily, without affront. “Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tag-along.”

“Hello,” she says quietly. “Pleased to meet you. I am Sabriel.”

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” he says, drawing Sabriel’s attention away from the dwarf. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric clarifies.

“Thank you,” Sabriel breathes. She has a cautious air about her, and very likely she is in shock. “You seem to know a great deal about it all.”

“More than most,” he allows. “I am an apostate, and my area of expertise is in the Fade. I was in the area when the Conclave was destroyed, and thought to lend my aid.”

“That is prudent,” Sabriel comments. “I hope that means you have some idea about what I’m meant to do? What is the Fade?”

Solas’ astounded expression is only excused by its replication on Cassandra and Varric’s faces. “What's the Fade?” Varric repeats incredulously. “Andraste's tits…You must've taken a mean hit to the head, kid.”

Sabriel’s face is troubled, her eyebrows furrowed. She looks to Solas helplessly.

“The Fade is the domain of spirits, and dreams,” Solas explains, trying to swallow the bile he can taste suddenly in the back of his mouth. _None of this is real_ , he reminds himself. “It is from where a mage draws power to cast spells into the Waking world.”

“Do you think I could be dreaming?” Sabriel asks desperately.

“If only,” Solas says darkly.

“We must hurry,” Cassandra reminds them. “Leliana waits for us at the forward camp.”

Solas nods. “Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

“Very well. That is…troubling. We must proceed quickly. This way, down the bank.” She leads them down the narrow, slippery path. In the valley is a frozen lake. Two cabins are burning, one just ahead and the other to the right. He catches sight of a group of demons, two shades and two wraiths, and puts a barrier around the party before they are noticed.

Varric begins the skirmish with an arrow that explodes on impact, inexplicably igniting the ethereal wraith on the left. Solas targets the one on the right, sending a barrage of arctic energy that slows the demon's next attack. Cassandra engages the shades fearlessly, drawing their attention to her by jumping onto the ice to confront them directly, thus protecting the more vulnerable members of the party from assault. Sabriel takes a steadying breath, her dark eyes wide, and climbs carefully down the bank, using her hands to brace herself.

Behind him, Varric takes the high ground, to better aim and flank. Solas tears his focus away from the prisoner and calls a bolt of lightning down to paralyze the shade that is about to flank Cassandra. She backhands it with her shield and immediately re-engages her foe with an expert lunge. Varric sends his wraith back to the Fade, then aims to help finish off Solas’.

Sabriel finally reaches the shade – no longer paralyzed, it looks at her and feels her fear. It abandons Cassandra – clearly a formidable opponent – to close with Sabriel. Solas attempts to slow it using his staff's natural power, but the bolts are too weak to do enough damage. Sabriel looks wholly unprepared, but despite this as the shade bears down on her suddenly her sword is there, parrying the blow. The fine edge cuts off one limb entirely, and leaves the other hanging on only partially. The shade screams in rage and she advances on it without hesitation, pressing her advantage, hacking away at the creature with no small amount of force. She lodges her blade so firmly in its rough hide that she cannot remove it, but then she places her bare hand on its flesh and it bursts into a tower of flame. “Damn,” Varric whistles. Solas ignores him, but privately agrees, frowning in contemplation.

Cassandra insists they search the cabins for survivors, so they do, trying not to look like they are enjoying the meager warmth as the houses burned down. No souls remain, inside or out.

“So, what really happened?” Varric asks as they begin to climb back out of the valley.

“I don’t remember,” she tells him. A flare from the mark slows her stride. She shakes her hand vigorously, and then clenches it into a fist.

“That'll get you every time,” says Varric. “Should've spun a story.” Cassandra's self-righteous rebuttal sets off what is now a typical argument between the Seeker and the dwarf. Solas steps up and puts a few fingers lightly on the back of Sabriel’s left elbow. She seems wary of the touch, but looks at him expectantly.

“I do not know how long my magic will be able to stabilize your mark,” he tells her quietly while their companions bicker. “You are the only one who can close the rifts…take care you do not take unnecessary risk.” He looks intently into her eyes. They are so dark he can see his own reflection. They mirror the snow, make it hard to discern her thoughts. “You should not fight if you are not accustomed to it,” he clarifies at last.

They walk in silence for several meters before she finally replies. "I am," she says too quietly, her voice catching in her throat.

"Hm?"

"Accustomed to it," she elaborates, more clearly now. He quirks an eyebrow at her with an unspoken question; she lets him catch her eye but looks immediately down at her boots. "I only -" She cuts herself off. "I've just got the worst headache, that's all."

He nods, knowing she is deflecting but choosing not to pursue. Likely she is a circle mage, then, newly blooded and fearing retribution. "Allow me," he offers magnanimously. He visualizes the cooling relief he intends and sends it to her with a surge of mana. He watches as the lines around her mouth fade so they aren’t so severe.

"Thank you," she says, and when she looks up at him through her thick lashes it is as if she is waiting for some recognition to light in his eyes or - something. There is no way that she could know the secrets that he keeps. And even if she does, well... He keeps his own gaze passive and open. With a troubled intake of breath, she looks again at her boots, and then hastens to catch up with the rest of their group.


	2. The Wrath of Heaven

Cassandra hustles them through the field as best she can, but it is still two skirmishes, a rift, and a grueling forty-five minute endurance of Varric’s presence before they reach the forward camp. The rift is troublingly close to the gate, which itself is poorly defended, and despite Sabriel being quite hands-on for a mage, she has no shield, and she doesn’t seem to have a way to counter the weakening strikes of the wraiths. The elven apostate casts a barrier around her as often as possible, and Cassandra herself draws as much attention as she can, but the girl is still battered and panting by the time she manages to close the rift.

“Sealed, as before,” she hears the elf say. Cassandra pounds on the heavy wooden door with her pommel. “Well done.”

“Open the gates,” Cassandra calls, projecting her voice.

“Aye, aye, Lady Cassandra,” replies a vaguely familiar voice, muffled from behind the barricades.

The look on Leliana’s face when they approach is one of unadulterated relief – for the bard, at least. Cassandra sees why immediately: Chancellor Roderick has wasted no time in carrying on like an imbecile, clinging to the fantasy execution as if it will do anything about the madness in the sky. The prisoner herself can see the danger plainly. She asks them directly, “Is not the Breach the more pressing issue?” and as the Chancellor splutters indignantly, the Right Hand pulls the Left aside.

“It works,” Cassandra tells her without preamble. “The mark has closed the rifts, just as the elf predicted.”

“Thank the Maker,” says Leliana with feeling, her eyes flicking to Solas, to Sabriel, and back to Cassandra.

“We must get her to the Temple, before it is too late.”

“Cullen stands ready with our forces in the valley, but, Cassandra…”

“I’m listening.”

“Consider the mountain pass, please. It is the quickest route, and my people are up there, they may need aid.”

“When did you lose contact?” Cassandra asks, easily reading between the lines.

“Two hours ago,” she confesses.

Cassandra considers the options, but shakes her head. “A sustained assault on the main path is the safest, most direct route. It is our best chance.”

Leliana persists. “If time is of the essence, Cullen’s men can create a distraction and allow you to proceed unimpeded, still taking the swiftest way.”

Cassandra sighs heavily and turns to Sabriel. The others have gone silent as they speak, and the Chancellor has likely slunk off to bemoan the state of affairs to more sympathetic ears. “How do you think we should proceed?” Cassandra asks.

Sabriel looks behind her – and sees only Solas and Varric staring expectantly back. “Me?” she asks incredulously.

“You bear the mark,” Solas reminds her. “It is you we must keep alive.”

She only ponders for a moment. “You say the mountain pass is the fastest? That’s the way we go.” At Cassandra’s slight scowl, she holds up her marked hand, which is glowing already, but spits out sparks of light as the Breach grows again, vibrating through her whole arm. “This thing burns,” she explains.

The wind whips their faces as they ascend. When they reach the platform that begins the transition from steep mountain path to pillars of ladders, they all pause to crane their heads back and catch their breath.

“What manner of tunnel is this? A mine?” Solas asks. Cassandra explains what little she knows, an old mining tunnel that is one of many through these mountains, and then they all settle into an uneasy, expectant silence. The elf’s final comment has them all wondering what demons lurk in the dark ahead. When they reach the entrance, Cassandra goes first, shield braced for anything.

“Anything” turns out to be a section of the old mine that opens directly to the other side of the ridge. Inside, they find two clusters of demons, and a shield for Sabriel. She takes it gingerly, unsure, so Cassandra brusquely tightens the straps for her. Outside Varric, the first to leave, always complaining about being underground, finds the bodies of Leliana’s men.

“This cannot be all of them,” Cassandra protests, counting even as she commits their faces to memory –

“There,” says Sabriel, pointing. Through the trees, Cassandra can just make out a flash of green.

“We must seal the Breach,” Solas argues. “Unless we do, no one is safe.”

But Sabriel has already set off down the slope, drawing her sword as she jogs. The rift ahead is significantly more difficult than anything they have encountered previously, predominantly due to the presence of a new and horrible demon that the elf names “Terror!” in the heat of battle. Long, spindly, and utterly disturbing, it has the effect of paralyzing one in fear if it comes too close, shrieking in a way that makes the muscles seize and lock. Cassandra has to steel her nerves against it, and even still she finds her movements are slowed. She loses focus of the field, her attention narrowing to a single enemy. She does not see how the party fares, but the prisoner manages at last to close the rift, and the battle is over.

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.” Cassandra helps the woman to her feet, grasping her shoulders firmly once she stands.

“I am glad to see you safe Lieutenant. But thank the prisoner: it was she who insisted we come this way.”

“The prisoner…then, it was you – ” Lieutenant Roscoe looks surprised, but the prisoner meets her eyes only briefly. This close to the Breach, they look almost grey.

The prisoner inclines her head. “It was worth the risk, if we might save you.”

“The way behind us is clear, for the moment. You should take your scouts and retreat to the valley while you can.” She splits a restorative potion with Roscoe, taking a mouthful for herself for the ache in her knee, and then passing the rest of the flask to the other woman. Roscoe downs it and shatters the empty crystal on the flagstone, and Varric flinches at the sound but plays it off, looking off toward the Breach like he has heard something else, instead.

“This way,” Cassandra points once they have all caught their breath. “Down the bank. The Temple of Scared Ashes lies just ahead.”

* * *

When Seeker Cassandra said “that means demons,” Sabriel honestly hadn’t been sure what she expected. Thus far, “demons” seemed to describe the Lesser Dead – grotesque, horrifying, and dangerous, but obviously driven more by unconscious or animalistic urges than an effort of free will. They were like no creature she could remember from the _Book of the Dead_ , but they had something of the same single-mindedness to them. Here in the wreckage of the Conclave, surrounded by still-burning corpses, her sense of Death is pervasive and it crowds around her like a shroud, settling ominously in the back of her mind. A doorway into Life yawns wide here, so large that she has felt it since she woke up, but it can’t prepare her for seeing the Breach up close. As far up as she looks, she does not think she can see the top. It seems to drag on infinitely.

“The Breach is a _long_ way up,” the dwarf, Varric Tethras, comments, displaying his uncanny knack for verbalizing her thoughts once again. Behind them, the red-headed priestess the Seeker had called Leliana arrives, bringing with her a handful of traumatized looking soldiers of various class. The two women break away to talk strategy, and Sabriel turns to Varric. “I’m not sure how I’ll even get up there.”

The bald elf overhears her. “No,” he says, shaking his head and pointing as he joins them. “This rift is the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Sabriel peers at it, trying to ignore the steady ache in her left hand. She lays her stomach across the wide bannister and looks down to the blast point.

“This way,” Cassandra calls, pulling her attention away. Archers have filtered around the ruins, and men with swords clamber up the slope to her right. Cassandra stands on a pile of debris and gestured for her to follow. The rubble is difficult to scale at first, massive in its devastation – both Solas and Cassandra have to grip an arm and _pull_ her up. The next is more manageable, if only because the bricks are easier to grasp. As she climbs the last, a resonant voice reverberates through the cavity.

“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asks, sounding disturbed.

Solas answers. “At a guess? The person who created the Breach.”

On the opposite side of the Temple was a strange red crystal. When Sabriel nears it, her skin itches and her stomach rolls. The rock is glowing slightly, pulsing as if to a heartbeat.

“You know this stuff is _red lyrium_ , right Seeker?” Varric whispers.

“I see it, Varric,” the woman says gruffly.

“But what’s it doing here?” he insists, voice becoming strangely shrill.

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the Temple, corrupted it?” Solas muses.

“Bah!” Varric spits. “It’s evil! Whatever you do, don’t touch it!”

Sabriel doesn’t need to be told twice. Something about this lyrium rubs her the wrong way, like a foot in the door. She is reminded of Cloven Crest, and the broken Charter Stone that loomed there, one evil act paving the way for further evil. She skirts the crystals with as wide a berth as she can. Following Cassandra’s careful steps brings them to quite a natural staircase, mostly undamaged, that ends in an abrupt but relatively short drop to the base floor of the Temple.

“Keep the sacrifice still,” the ghostly voice continues to speak.

Then, a new voice: “Someone! Help me!” The companions exchange startled looks with each other, and Cassandra surges down the staircase, jumping gracefully down from the ledge.

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” she exclaims over her shoulder. They follow her without delay. Sabriel is the last to drop down from the wall, getting a sense that she is jumping into an arena, and the mark on her hand sparks as she nears the rift. Again the distant cry: _Someone, help me!_ , and then, bizarrely, Sabriel hears her own voice.

“What’s going on here?”

Cassandra turns on her, her eyes accusing but her mouth strangely vulnerable. “That was your voice,” she puzzles. “Most Holy called out to you, but… ”

The rift _flexes_ and a vision fills the air like a smoke bomb. An unrealistically large figure looms overhead, as ghostly as the voice had been, a nightmare of darkness and foul burning fires where eyes should be. Her gut clenches at the sight of him, and she has a feeling like she is missing something. In front of it is another figure, smaller and clearly restrained. Then her own image enters the scene. Her specter is wearing different clothes then than she is now, clothes that she remembers: a blue surcoat dusted with silver keys, fine fish-scale armor beneath it, the whole ensemble caked in grime. Her helmet is askew, her eyes wide and hair wild, and there is blood on her chin for some reason. Her image carries no Bells, and no sword. She spares a thought toward who might have dressed her in the clothes she wears now; the fit is ill, the green padded tunic as nondescript as could be, the bulk of it all barely defending her against the chill of the mountain air. The tools of her trade are of greater interest: she has no recollection of what might have happened to them, and she doesn’t remember when last she had them. If what that vision is showing is the truth, she can’t begin to guess where they might be. A significant part of her had hoped, she realizes now, that her accoutrements were simply with her clothing. Now, she is less sure. 

“What’s going on here!” the her that is not her demands again.

“Run while you can! Warn them!” cries the captive.

“We have an intruder,” the gravelly voice comments, as if remarking upon the rain or a particularly unsatisfying meal. He points imperiously toward her, the her that is not.

“Kill her,” he commands. “Now.”

The vision fractures apart, and immediately the Seeker is in her face, expression fierce. “You _were_ there!” she cries. “Who attacked? And the Divine , is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?” she demands.

“I _don’t remember_!” Sabriel insists, frustrated more with herself for that fact than Cassandra for pressing the issue.

It is Solas who neatly diverts their confrontation. “Echoes of what happened here,” he explains. “The Fade bleeds into this place.” He turns to the women. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed…albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely.” He plants his staff firmly at his feet, leaning into it. “However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Cassandra nods brusquely and turns to address the archers and the soldiers. “That means demons!” she cries, her words carrying far. It is a voice clearly born on a battlefield; such was its strength and clarity. “Stand ready!”

The men assemble themselves at their posts, drawing blades and knocking arrows, and Solas looks at her expectantly. She in turn looks to Cassandra, who nods in affirmation and unsheathes her own blade. Behind the Seeker, just ahead of a line of archers, Varric gives her an encouraging thumbs-up. She draws a shuddering breath and gingerly gestures her hand toward the rift.

Before, while closing them, she had been struck by a sense of fullness, maybe, or the sensation of pulling on a loose thread. The power would pull and pull and unravel almost, faster and faster and smaller and smaller until she reached the end of the thread and there was nothing left to pull and nowhere left to pull out of. Opening the rift felt…nothing at all like that. A pained groan escapes her though she has clenched her teeth, and her arm shakes her clear down into her boots with the effort. It is like holding back the tides, or like stopping the moon in the sky, or like –

 _wading through still water, pins and needles in her legs, skin_ crawling _with wrongness, the corruption making her gag –_

The sky splits apart, throwing her back and breaking the mark’s connection. She shakes her head when she stands, and she’s sweaty, clammy, her hair is plastered to her cheeks and forehead. A dark chuckle drifts around them like the wind, and then two gigantic clawed hands are pulling apart the seams of the rift and an enormous clawed foot steps out.

This: this was a demon. The fear that comes with it like an physical presence feels like oil on water, and sits with her just as uneasily. Already soldiers are hacking away at its legs to no effect: she can see how their blades are bouncing off its tough skin – rain on a tin roof. The archers are similarly stymied, and the demon laughs again, lashing a whip of pure lighting and scattering the poor souls who had lingered too close to its feet. Sabriel’s trembling is only masked by her swift escape to the demon’s flank, and she stands with her blade at the ready, shield forgotten on her arm, unwilling to engage her foe.

Cassandra has no such qualms, and they make eye contact when the Seeker raises her shield to deflect another web of lightning. The shield takes the brunt of the force, but it ripples across the surface and nonetheless shocks through the woman, who grimaces but does not back down, and who calls to her across the field in that same full bellow, “We must strip its defenses! Wear it down!”

_What?_

Sabriel’s expression is frozen, confused, and the demon knocks Cassandra aside with a vicious backhand. It advances on her with a slow pace, patient, knowing she has nowhere to go. She raises her shield so that she can still see over it and retreats without looking where she is stepping, stumbling several times. The demon stills and raises its clawed hands, and a glowing orb of electricity begins to coalesce in the air before her.

“Run!” yells Solas, already out of range, as he gestures a barrier around her. She can see the film of it settle over her skin and she does her best to skirt the danger. Her hair frizzes toward the orb as it grows, and she’s nearly clear when it detonates. The blast throws her onto her face and she lands with her body partway on her shield, groaning, grateful she hasn’t just eviscerated herself by accident.

The Seeker is recovered when Sabriel pulls herself back upright, and she locks eyes with her and deliberately goads the demon down the field, away from Sabriel. The demon, diverted, begins lumbering toward the Seeker now with the same relentless advance.

“Quickly!” the Seeker cries before she is re-engaged. “Disrupt the rift!”

 _Of course_ , the mark, she had forgotten about the mark. The demon has cleared the bulk of the field, and the active combatants are clustered now in the far side of the crater. Leliana comes to cover her, standing at her left flank, prepared for the mark to inevitably leave her vulnerable. When she gestures toward the rift, the connection occurs instantly.

Again, the feeling of pulling, of filling; the rift closes by degrees, but before it’s completed the rift shrugs her loose, buckling and bathing the immediate area with an unearthly green glow. Behind her, the demon is brought abruptly to its knees, and the soldiers let loose a bloodthirsty roar and begin their assault with renewed vigor. Now their blades draw blood – or ichor, or whatever – and she can see fletching protruding from its back; the archers have found their marks.

A tremulous feeling grips her heart and strangely, her hand. Splitting, erupting. “More are coming through!” she warns as loudly as she can, though she’s not sure how she knows. Her feeling proves true when an instant later more shades have slipped through the gaps. Several target her without delay, despite Leliana’s formidable aim, and one in particular lands a heavy blow against her shield. She can feel her arm bruising, and the ache in her shoulder is burning now, heavy with fatigue. If she had any time she would have cast a diamond of protection, but she barely has the wherewithal to stand, let alone perform a serious casting. Desperately she swings her sword, cutting down the shades while Varric and Leliana assist her from a distance and the others continue to barrage the largest demon. When the shades are gone she stands panting, and realizes that Cassandra’s blade is bouncing off the demon’s skin again. She looks up and sees the rift still looming, almost like a crystal, turning and shifting in dizzying patterns.

She uses the mark again, finds it easier and easier to initiate the connection, and this time when it shakes her loose she runs to where the demon has knelt and tries to shatter it where Solas has frozen a limb in solid ice. Everyone has concentrated their full effort on the thing, and it is almost too crowded. Varric’s crossbow is the final straw for the thing, three bolts clustered perfectly between the eyes. It groans as it falls, and begins to fade away.

“Now! Seal the Breach!” Cassandra yells, and Sabriel turns and raises her arm. Even this far across the field, the magic is strong enough to connect. The rift pulls at her for a long time, at some points she feels full to bursting and at others she feels like maybe the connection is going the wrong way, like the Breach is pulling her _in_ rather than she pulling the Breach closed.

When the connection severs this time, the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.. basically the first time I played through I completely missed Corypheus' phantom dialogue AND the red lyrium, because I didn't see the stairs to the right and I just jumped straight down into the pit. SO like, I know that there is a clear and obvious path, but for Sabriel it was a mess. that's my story and I'm sticking to it.


	3. Writ of the Divine

Cassandra has been arguing back and forth with the Chancellor for over an hour when the Herald strides through the door.

“Chain her!” Roderick demands immediately. “I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial!”

“Disregard that.” Cassandra waves her hand as if to disperse his order from the air. “And leave us.” She watches with great satisfaction as her soldiers salute her and close the door behind them. She dearly hopes that her earlier jibe from the forward camp,  _glorified clerk_ , is ringing as clearly in his mind as it is in hers.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” the Chancellor warns.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it,” Cassandra declares, striding into his space and leveling her gaze at him.

“So I’m still a suspect, even after what we just did?” the Herald asks, and the Chancellor takes the opportunity to redirect his aggression.

“You absolutely are,” he tells her venomously.

“No,” Cassandra counters for the fifth time. “She is not.”

Leliana rounds the table to stand at Cassandra’s side. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others –  _or_ , have allies that yet live,” she says significantly.

“ _I_  am a suspect?” the Chancellor asks with outrage.

“You,” Leliana agrees. “And many others.”

“But not the prisoner.” The Herald stares back at him stonily.

“I heard the voices in the Temple,” Cassandra says. “The Divine called to her for help.”

“So her survival, that  _thing_  on her hand - all a coincidence?”

“Providence,” Cassandra declares it. “The Maker sends her to us in our darkest hour.”

“You changed your mind about me,” the Herald says with a flicker of hope.

“I was wrong. Perhaps I still am,” says Cassandra. “I will not, however, pretend you were not exactly what we needed when we needed it.” 

“The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it,” Leliana reminds her.

“This is  _not_  for you to decide!” Roderick insists. In response Cassandra hefts the tome she had brought along specifically for this moment, and lets it drop from some height onto the table. The resounding thump and resulting swirl of dust is as deeply satisfying as the affront that flashes across the Chancellor’s face.

“You know what this is, Chancellor,” Cassandra observes, pointing her gloved hand to the clearly stamped insignia of the Inquisition. “A Writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act.” She shifts her balance and throws caution to the wind. “As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we  _will_  restore order. With, or without, your approval.” Roderick has no response to that but to sneer and retreat with his tail between his legs. Cassandra knew she was being dreadfully dramatic, but it was all so deeply satisfying.

“This is the Divine’s directive,” Leliana explains to Sabriel as the Chancellor flees the room. “To rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.”

The three women stand around the table, the Writ between them, and Cassandra has time to observe the Herald clearly at last - without the doom of the world looming so near over their heads. She is several inches shorter than the Seeker, slender and quiet both in spirit and in flesh. She looks shocked, and is still as pale as ever, even a full day of rest doing nothing to aid her complexion. She had obviously found the chest in her cabin, full of furs and apparently the odds and ends of several different armors, and had put together an outfit that looked both unattractive and very warm. Her hands now worry a stray tuft at her sleeve.  

 “We aren’t ready,” Leliana admits. “We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice,” Cassandra says. “We must act now, with you at our side.”

The girl looks between the two of them. “If you truly wish to restore order,” she says with a trembling confidence. “Then I will help you as best I can.”

A tension that she didn’t know she was holding dissipates with the Herald’s words. Leliana’s mouth quirks into a small smile, and Cassandra holds her hand out to cement their accord. Sabriel shakes it once, firmly, and all three women look at each other. Cassandra wonders if they all feel the same weight that she does in this moment.

“What do we do?” Sabriel asks after the moment passes. “If what we did, didn’t work…I don’t know how to do it differently.”

“We do not have to discuss these things now,” Cassandra tells her gravely. “I know you have only just woken up, and much has happened. We have some ideas, but they should not be deliberated on an empty stomach.” In truth, Cassandra had participated in that very debate several times already, and felt that there was nothing to say that had not already been said.

“Come,” Cassandra says, cutting off Sabriel as she moves to speak. “I will show you to the tavern – you must eat!” The girl’s mouth snaps shut as her stomach makes itself known, and as the women laugh Sabriel lets herself be led out of the war room.

Walking through the Chantry with the Herald at her side is much different now than how it had been the first time. Some gape openly at her, others duck their heads and shrink away - likely they remember accusing her, before she proved to have power over the rifts. Cassandra herself was not unfamiliar with the sentiment, having come to terms with her own swift judgement of the Herald while the woman slept. Cassandra studies her as they walk; the woman is caught up in her own thoughts, lightly holding her left hand in her right and staring into the middle distance morosely.

“Does it trouble you?” she asks without really thinking. Sabriel looks over at her, startled out of her thoughts.

“Not anymore,” she admits after a moment. “I just wish I knew what it was.”

Cassandra nods in understanding. “At least we know what it can do,” she reasons. The air outside the Chantry is brisk and refreshing, and in the glare of the sun most people cannot see them clearly as they make their way to the Singing Maiden.

The tavern is not too crowded, as Sabriel has slept through much of the day, and the midday meal has already been eaten. Cassandra tucks them into the table in the corner, putting her back to the wall out of habit so she can see the rest of the establishment. One of Flissa’s girls fills Cassandra’s mug as soon as she sees her, and the girl brings a second mug full of beer for the Herald at Cassandra’s nod. The liquid sloshes over the tops of the mugs when the girl sets them down, but she is already spinning to deal with a patron who has begun to raucously carol a particularly offensive song.

“The beer is suitable, usually,” Cassandra comments conversationally, realizing she doesn’t know a thing about the Herald’s tastes. “And I am certain that Flissa has more stew in the pot from midday, though the best of it is likely already eaten.”

“That’s alright,” says Sabriel. “I will eat whatever is available.” She takes a sip and sets her mug back down, staring at her hands and worrying the inside of her lip.

They sit in an uncomfortable silence for a while, though ostensibly they are simply waiting for Flissa to notice them. She’s being flirted with by some broad-shouldered, dark-haired soldier, and it isn’t long before Cassandra loses her patience. She is ready to stand and demand service for the Herald – who as far as she can tell might not have eaten in days – when Varric saunters in.

She still can’t stand the dwarf, on a number of levels, but she can’t deny that he is exactly the type of person who might set the Herald at ease. She stands, which catches Varric’s attention, naturally. He grimaces and makes as if to leave when he sees her looking at him, but she hardens her expression and he freezes in his tracks. An instant later, he shakes it off and defiantly turns to go nonetheless.

“Varric,” she calls, waylaying him, “come and sit with our friend.” She tactfully avoids the woman’s title, evident as it has been in the few hours she has been conscious that she dislikes the attention the honorific brings. It is a discomfort that Cassandra can identify with. Varric’s expression twists in confusion, then clears when he apparently recognizes to whom she is referring. He joins them with a deliberately casual air, seating himself at the head of the table with the Herald to his left. Flissa’s girl is sliding a mug of beer down in front of Varric in record time, and he thanks her with a wink and a nod.

“I will go and inform Flissa we are in need of food,” Cassandra decides, ignoring Varric’s knowing look. Sabriel’s thoughts are still somewhere else, and she barely nods in agreement. The Seeker makes her way to the bar.

* * *

“So,” says Varric as soon as the Seeker leaves to scare off Flissa’s suitor. “Now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, how are you holding up?”

The girl looks up at him, then to Cassandra’s empty seat in surprise. She glances back at him through her lashes, and already his brain is composing her introduction – _fathomless e_ _yes, skin as pale as snow, the fate of the world on her shoulders._ But she recovers quickly enough from her clear distraction.

“I’m still not sure I believe any of this is actually happening,” she tells him, and he laughs out loud. Her eyes crinkle up in the corners and a small smile pulls at her mouth in response, but it seems more of a habit than out of any true mirth.

“Tell me about it,” he commiserates. “I mean you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas, to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would’ve…spread that out over more than one day.”

She shakes her head, brings her hand up to her brow, runs it through her hair, and sighs. She meets Varric’s eyes as if she has a question, then thinks better of it and subsides. He tries again.

“I still can’t believe you survived _Cassandra_!” he says, looking over his shoulder to make sure she is still busy. “You’re lucky you were out cold for most of her frothing rage.”

He gets a true laugh out of her this time, though she tries to stifle it, looking over her shoulder as well.

“She’s very passionate,” the Herald comments diplomatically. “I understand she’s had a full plate.”

He lets go the thread of humor and agrees, his own thoughts returning to the catastrophe at hand. “For days now we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement.”

At this she turns her left hand over, holding her mug now in her right, and looks at her palm. It is no longer the wildly sparking thing from the Temple, but nonetheless a soft green light illuminates the pale skin of her face.

“I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived,” he tells her, watching for her reaction while taking a sip.  She curls her left hand into a fist. Her brow is furrowed, but when she glances at Varric her expression loosens.

“If it was that bad, why did you stay?” she asks him instead. And wasn’t that just the question. Cassandra had released him ages ago – he hadn’t even been her prisoner when the Conclave went to shit, so by all accounts he should have never looked back when the purpose of her bringing him to these Maker-forsaken mountains was rendered so completely moot. He can’t deny – to himself, or anyone, let alone the Herald of Andraste – that this hasn’t disturbed him.

“I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this?” he shakes his head in disgust. “Thousands of people died on that mountain – I was almost one of them – and now there’s a _hole in the sky_. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.”

Sabriel’s expression is troubled. “Thousands?” she asks quietly, shaking her head as well. “I felt it but – to know. What happened must have been horrific.”

“It was,” Varric agreed. “I was one of the people who went out to look for bodies, or survivors. That is, until we realized the demons had already started spilling out.” He frowns, remembering.

“It must have been pure luck that I survived,” the Herald muses. He might be projecting, but she doesn’t look much like she believes what she’s saying.

“Good luck, or bad?” he wonders. “You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going.”

“What do you mean?” she asks. “Why?”

“Heroes are everywhere,” he says simply. “I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s…beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

She huffs out a breath, and then offers him a surprisingly pinched grimace in response to that. “Haven’t we got that already? Aren’t I – what is it? – that Herald of Fuck-all.” She is bitter, practically spitting the words out.

“Andraste,” Varric corrects, laughing awkwardly. “And that’s kind of what I mean.”

“Varric, I – I’m sorry,” she says, ducking her head. “I didn’t realize, I mean…” she trails off. A shaky breath escapes her, and she goes back to staring at her hands.

He stares at her mutely for a moment, and then at last infers her meaning. Laughing more comfortably now, he lets her off the hook. “Oh, you don’t think – sweetheart, I’m not with the Chantry. And trust me, personal beliefs aside: I hang out with plenty of heretics. Your secret is safe with me.”

She colors, surprisingly, and darts her eyes away. He grins at her fully, and then Cassandra is back with a heaping full plate of fried nug and grilled vegetables, proclaiming it an advance on tonight's evening meal. The Nightingale would be outraged, but Varric supposes she has to know already, considering she’s got eyes everywhere. And there are so few hunters among these refugees; it’s easier for soldiers to set traps than go hunting the rams beyond the gates. He reaches helpfully for a morsel of nug, but the Seeker smacks his hand away.

“Thank you,” says Sabriel, smiling slightly up at the older woman.

“You are welcome,” says the Seeker sincerely. She glances between Varric and the Herald, noting the dwarf’s relaxed posture and Sabriel’s gentle push of her plate toward him, a silent offer to share despite the Seeker’s admonishment. Haltingly, she offers, “I – I shall leave you two to dine.”

Why, the Seeker has manners! Sabriel hastens to reassure her and welcome her to stay, but Cassandra insists. “Come and find me when you are ready to speak about our next step. But now, rest a little, regain your strength, and get to know Haven. There are a few people worth meeting in particular, but I am certain Varric can point you toward anyone you need to know.”

“Why, Seeker, was that a compliment?” Varric asks, delighted.

“Hardly,” she denies stubbornly.

“I will do that, Lady Cassandra,” Sabriel assures her, waylaying any further retorts. “Thank you again.”

“Good night, Herald,” Cassandra says, nodding her head slightly. She glares at Varric, and then leaves the tavern.

Sabriel picks at the vegetables, and Varric happily eats the morsel he had been eyeing earlier. When he’s finished chewing he asks her, “So, since I’m your duly appointed tour guide, what would you like on the agenda this evening? I’ve got useful people, interesting people, stunning vistas, or a long overdue full night’s sleep.”

She smiles wryly at him. “I was leaning toward the latter.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “The vistas are best saved for daylight, anyway.”

“Thanks, Varric,” she says, and resumes eating. Together they polish off the plate, and when it’s cleared and pushed away they settle into their chairs with full stomachs to finish off their beers.

“You really don’t know about Andraste?” Varric has to ask after a long and comfortable silence.

She looks at him, then darts her glance away. There’s a long and decidedly uncomfortable pause before at last she admits, “No.”

“So, like…amnesia?” he offers quietly, leaning in toward her.

She looks at the floor. “I guess,” she says quietly.

“What _do_ you remember?” he asks. “Any of that stuff we saw at the Temple?”

“No,” she says. “I remember running. Everything is a blur, there were so many – ” she cuts herself off and heaves a shuddering breath, takes a drink and inhales by mistake, choking and then coughing. He pats her on the back until she stops.

“What about before that?” he prompts. “Were you…I don’t know, expelled fully formed from the Fade?” he offers wildly. “Or is there a sudden influx of hermits upon Haven? Which rock did you hide under to avoid the Chantry so completely?” He is teasing, he thinks. But at this point, he’s all out of surprise as an emotional response. Run completely dry. After Hawke, all those years, and now _this_? Yeah, he’s off the mailing list. It’s a better investment to sign up for the _World-Weary & Jaded_ bi-weekly.

“I- oh!” This time, she barely opens her mouth before her face crumples in despair. Instead of answering, she hides her face in her hands and puts her elbows in her lap, her back bowed and shaking. No sound escapes her, but this, too is Hawke-territory. Bent and trembling under the weight of the world.

“Hey,” he says gently, because this girl is so much softer than Hawke ever was. With Marian, this kind of emotional outburst would be best met with stoic companionship and a flask, perhaps sitting nearby but not touching or talking. Even with Anders. _Especially_ with Anders, near the end. After she wiped her eyes, she needed banter and camaraderie, but before that she couldn’t stand anything that could be interpreted or construed as pity or sympathy. She told him once it might be impossible for her to pick her burdens back up if she ever gave in to laying them down, even for a moment. He…hadn’t had the bravery to convince her to do it anyway. Hadn't been sure Kirkwall could survive it. It hadn't mattered anyway. He leans across the corner of the table to rest his broad hand on Sabriel's narrow shoulder, firming the touch when she presses back into it as he guessed she might. “It’s alright,” he assures her. He hopes he isn’t lying. “It’ll be alright.” He smooths his palm across her bicep, trying to ground her, and it seems to help as she eases out of her panic.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes when she can take her face back out of her hands. “I think I need to rest.”

“Don’t apologize,” Varric says. “Let me show you back to your cabin. Come on.”

They leave their beers unfinished, and Varric waves at Flissa, who has been peering at them from behind the bar. Maryden strikes up a new song that Varric knows is bound to be stuck in his head now – _Empress of Fire_ , Maker, he can't stand it. It’s muffled when the door shuts, but it’s already too late.

Varric is content to walk quietly back to the Herald’s cabin with her, but she seems inclined to waylay any more personal questions – at least in her direction. She has no such qualms turning the tables on him. “Let’s talk about you, Varric,” she suggests bluntly.

“You want to talk about me?” he asks. “I’m flattered. Also, inclined toward extravagant lies.”

The warning doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest. She begins in an innocent voice that, of course, worries him immediately. “You write tragedies, you say?”

“Among other genres,” he agrees. “I’ve tried my hand at a fair few. Tragedies are, however, often my best works.”

“What is your ‘best work,’ if you had to choose?” she asks.

“My _Tale of the Champion_ is likely my best seller, by the numbers. Also, by the content. But for some reason people can’t get enough of my romance serial. _Swords and Shields_ , it’s called. It’s garbage, but hey. One man’s trash, right?”

“What’s _Tale of the Champion_ about?” she wonders.

“Ah.” He rubs the back of his neck, unused to having to explain. “Well, it’s sort of a biography I guess. About my buddy Hawke, and how she held a city-state together for a few years, mostly with pure determination but also with a little help from a rag-tag crew of morally ambiguous friends. Until one of them decided to blow it all to bits anyway.”

“What?” Sabriel asks sharply.

 _Why is this walk taking so long? Ordinarily it goes so much faster_ , he thinks. “Yeah,” he says to the Herald. “So it goes, right? It’s not that interesting.”

She doesn’t look like she believes him. “Do you have a copy?” she asks.

“No,” he says truthfully. “But Cassandra probably does. If you can read it through the knife.”

“You are strange,” she proclaims.

“I’m not the one who put the knife through it,” he denies. “Anyway, here we are. Cabin sweet cabin. I’m just over there, the tent right by the fire. It’s cold, have you noticed?” He pats her on the elbow gently. “Come get me if you need anything, need to talk, whatever. Sleep well, sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” she says. “Will you show me around tomorrow?”

“Whenever you want,” he assures her.

“Okay. Good night,” she bids him, and closes the door. Varric stands in the small square in front of her cabin for a few moments and simply looks up at the Breach in the sky, and thinks about the only girl in the world who can close it. After a long moment, he turns and makes his way to the Chantry’s library.

* * *

Solas isn’t looking for her, but when he slips into the Fade several hours after Varric leaves the Herald to her rest, the presence of the mark is both potent and nearby. He follows it like a scent, interested despite himself. He had searched for her in the Fade before, when they still sought a way to save her life. He could not find her then. Now she is properly asleep, not simply unconscious, and when he slips into her dream he cloaks himself in the nascent ambiguity that drifts all the time at the edges of dreams.

The scene he enters into is unknown to him. Perhaps this is what her Circle looked like, before they were all disbanded. The Herald sits in a stone building, a window displaying a scene obviously well known to the girl: a view with height, and a vista showing the rolling lawn and scattered trees of a meadow. The grass is a dark, lush green, and a songbird trills outside the window, muted but merry. She is seated among peers, all young ladies of a similar age, and an older woman stands at the head of the room, clearly instructing. Her clothing is strange, nothing at all like the garb they recovered her in. He had glimpsed it for a moment, before it was removed and taken away. It had been well-made, underneath the general dirtiness; a dirtiness not out of place, for garb so evidently intended for battle. These garments are clearly of a more casual nature. A maroon skirt that shows her ankles, which are wrapped in a black fabric that is nearly transparent, and thin slippers. A white shirt is buttoned up to her neck, with a thin black ribbon tied under the collar and trailing down the front. Her jacket has sharply angled lapels and is the same color as her skirt. Each young lady wears this uniform.

“Sabriel,” the instructor is calling when he joins them. “Please demonstrate.”

Sabriel dutifully stands and walks to the front of the room, where the instructor gives way and sits on the edge of the large desk that is sitting at an angle across from the doorway. Solas replicates a desk from what he sees the students using, and sits to observe her dream as it unfolds. In front of her peers, she straightens her back and sketches a sigil in the air, her fingers leaving trails of golden fire where they pass. It simple – far simpler than any he has seen – consisting only of a circle with a shape like a cross through it, dividing it into uneven quarters. The lines of the cross aren’t straight - if anything, they’re curling with _flair_. The vertices don’t meet in the true middle, it lacks a focus or a grounding influence, and the execution overall lacks proper concentration and intent. Nothing about the sigil should work, the fact that it is glaringly incomplete notwithstanding.

Yet in her dream, the sigil continues to hover in the air, waiting as she draws similar shapes near it – each as the last in style and implementation. At last she speaks an unfamiliar word, and apparently she is done. The shape blurs in the air, and then transforms into a golden bird.

It is small and gleaming, and slightly dizzying to look at. It flaps its wings frantically as it is born, catching itself before it falls, and zooms thrice around the room before alighting on the Herald’s finger. She smiles beatifically down at it, and the song it trills at her is reminiscent of the bird outside the window. Solas stands and reinforces his ambiguity before approaching her and the construct.

“How did you do it?” he asks, scrutinizing the thing where it sits on her hand preening. At a closer inspection he can see it has no feathers, but rather the texture of feathers. The whole thing is knit out of an ever-swirling dance of the same sigils the Herald had painted in the air, only impossibly small and almost moving too fast to make out.

“The same as you did last week, Ellie,” the Herald says, and rolls her eyes. She must be interpreting him as a classmate. “The marks are the easy part, they’re all really basic. It’s just the first big one you have to remember to remember, or the whole thing falls apart before you start.”

“But it didn’t come alive until the end,” he observes.

“That was the final mark,” she agrees.

Her instructor interjects. “You need better control,” the wizened woman admonishes.

Sabriel ducks her head once in agreement. “I know,” she sighs. “I think I burnt my tongue.”

“Life, even the seeming of it, is a complicated working,” the teacher intones, lounging back on the desk. “But you would know that better than most, wouldn’t you?”

Sabriel colors, but Solas is more interested in the old woman, who is languishing on top of papers and books in a way that is decidedly not the standard he has come to expect from old women. The teacher watches Sabriel with an intensity that is also not the standard he has come to expect from a fragment of dream.

The room is slipping sideways into the peculiar chaos that is exclusive to dreams. Rabbits are hopping out from under desks and behind bookshelves, filling the floor in moments. The Herald is wringing her hands, fretting. The shape of the teacher is starting to blur around the edges.

“Where, oh where did you run away to, little mouse?” the teacher wonders, a too-wide grin stretching its face. Its eyes are burning white flames now. Sabriel looks at it with horror, but without surprise.

“Mogget?” she asks, backing away. Solas is forgotten beside her. The bird, also forgotten, flies at the thing's face. It swats it aside, and the construct hits the wall and shatters in to a shower of marks.

“Where are you hiding, _Abhorsen_?” the creature purrs, its voice crackling with hatred and power. It is a predator, this thing. Its form is melting against the floor, sweeping tendrils of itself toward the girl and twining about her ankles. She cries out, and the thin black fabric smolders. Solas has seen enough. A single gesture forms his staff beside him – his real staff, not the ugly apostate’s tool he had taken up to reaffirm his guise. The polished grey wood is worn where his hand has long gripped it, and the foci at the top is simple but elegant, a rough cut but vibrant gemstone from the Korcari Wilds called an opal that reflects light like Veilfire, lodged into a natural knot in the wood that is the size of his two fists together. He had crafted the piece himself, spent many years on the project in the long-ago, and it is one of the few weapons still in the world today – or still in use at least – that could travel physically between the Waking and the Dreaming. It was a pity he could only use it in the Dreaming, these days.

He sweeps the staff through the burning tentacles, breaking its grasp on the Herald and beginning to fracture the dream in a swell of power as he exerts his own will over her. He cuts in between the Herald and her monster, folding the girl close and projecting a barrier around them that stymies the thing’s attempt to grab her again.

She looks at him, and sees him. “Solas?” she asks, sounding even more perturbed.

“Wake up,” he commands her. His staff flares as the demon batters at his barrier.

She looks over his shoulder. “Mogget, _please_!” she entreats. “Where are you?”

“Where am I?” it snarls, outraged. Its voice sounds as if it has decayed in humanity considerably since Solas had turned his back to it.

“Herald,” Solas demands, grabbing her chin roughly so she is forced to look him in the eye. She shrinks back at his intensity.

“No,” she protests, her voice small but still stubborn. He can feel the barrier bending under the pressure of this demon. It is strong, whatever it is, and it wants her specifically.

“Wake up,” he orders her again. This time he exerts his will fully, into his words and into his touch. Her eyes widen and she looks beyond him, seeing the dream fully for the first time. She has a question, he can see it coalescing on her face, but he has already sent a jolt through her spiritual form, and the vision splinters apart as she wakes. The demon’s howl of displeasure echoes into the raw Fade, and Solas is standing alone again, thoughtful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so begins the canon divergence, little by little. if you've been bored to this point by the familiarity of the dialogue, fear not... I will be going off book, but some of the basic things in the beginning just seem a little silly to change, since the intro is meant to accustom the player to the world and its people, and Sabriel is the ultimate Thedas newbie. thanks for bearing with me <3 happy Valentine's day everyone.


	4. The Hinterlands

The next morning dawns bright, and earlier than Sabriel might have hoped. She is roused by a gentle but insistent knocking at her door, and when she opens it a woman wearing a vibrant yellow dress greets her. Her skin is a beautiful bronze that glows golden in the morning light, and her dark brown hair is braided neatly at the back of her head.

“Good morning, Herald,” the woman greets. She has a pleasing accent, and a warm and inviting smile. It almost turns the honorific into something Sabriel can stomach. “My name is Josephine Montiliyet,” the woman continues. “I am serving as Ambassador to the Inquisition.”

“Good morning,” Sabriel greets her in return, rubbing at her face blearily. She slept poorly, despite her exhaustion. She thinks she dreamt, but all she knows for certain is that her rest was not so restful. This does not seem to matter to the Ambassador, who ushers her back into the cabin and shuts the door behind them both.

“How can I help you?” Sabriel wonders.

“Ah,” says Josephine lightly. “Well, we are a force that is still establishing itself, as you may have gathered, and in the interest of promoting unity and an image that speaks to the good we hope to do in Thedas, we – rather, I – believe it prudent to outfit our people in…more consistent attire.”

Sabriel blinks at her without understanding for a few moments, and then glances over at the chair on which she had thrown her outerwear the night before. “You don’t like the fur,” she surmises.

“It’s not the fur!” Josephine hastens to reassure her in a way that makes Sabriel think that it very much is the fur. Sabriel cuts off the rest of her explanation with a flippant wave of her hand.

“It’s fine,” she assures her, not up to arguing. “I’ll wear whatever you want. Please, just make it warm.”

“Of course, Lady Herald,” Josephine inclines her head in a practiced motion. Then she hesitates. “If…you’re not busy,” she suggests.

“Measurements,” Sabriel guesses. “You have someone who can do it now.”

“Just so,” Josephine agrees. “I will be the one taking your measurements, though, my lady.”

Sabriel looks at the woman in bemusement, but agrees readily enough. “Where do you want me?” she asks, and goes to stand before in the center of the room. Josephine declares that her sleeping shirt is sufficiently thin enough to continue wearing, and begins to wrap a length of cord around her body, marking the numbers on the portable writing desk she brought with her. Sabriel, who has learned from her dinner with Varric, begins to ask Josephine questions about herself.

“So tell me,” she requests. “How does the Ambassador end up seamstress to the Inquisition as well?”

They chat amicably, Josephine marking her measurements throughout, and when she has all the information she needs she cracks the door open and pulls a small chest inside that Sabriel had not noticed earlier.

“This is for now, until your clothing is ready,” Josephine explains. Inside is a replacement for the furs, more form fitting by far and leagues beyond her previous ensemble in terms of quality. Josephine offers to help her to dress, but Sabriel is quite finished feeling helpless. The ambassador departs with a promise to see her later in the war room. When she is alone again, Sabriel wraps one of the furs around her shoulders and pokes through the chest.

What they’ve given her is a thick padded coat with several layers, the uppermost being the same deep blue of her old surcoat, with puffy gray sleeves the color of storm clouds.  Below that is a vest of a silky and yet surprisingly sturdy fabric in a rich hue, yellow like Josephine’s dress.  Lastly, a shirt threaded through with thin plates of metallic red rock. It is cool when it touches her skin, but quickly warms once she is wearing it.  Airy gray trousers round out the ensemble, secured to her thigh with a stiff leather pouch and to her waist with a thick double belt.  From this hangs a satisfyingly sharp, though short, knife, and there is room left over for a larger blade on the opposite hip. Crossed bandoliers on her chest seem to offer a holster for a mage’s staff on her back, and while she craves the weight of the Bells against her heart, outfit itself makes her feel more ready to face the unknown.

When she is fully dressed, she leaves her cabin, and raises her face into the sun. Varric is already awake, warming his hands by the fire. She wanders over to him, at peace in an otherwise already-bustling village. He smiles when he notices her.

“I see Josephine has gotten to you already,” he comments by way of greeting.

“She certainly never dressed  _you_ ,” Sabriel retorts. Varric chuckles and rises from the fireside.

“How would you know?” he teases her.

She gestures toward her own modestly covered bosom, referencing his gratuitous chest hair. “Too much…this,” she explains poorly. He gets her meaning nonetheless.

“No one’s making you do up all those buttons,” he reasons.

“True enough,” she agrees. “Good morning, Varric. Sleep well?”

“As ever,” he confirms. “Have you eaten yet?”

She informs him she has not, and they walk together to the Singing Maiden. It’s much busier now than it was in the early evening the day before, loud with many conversations and full to the brim, with nary an empty seat to spare – let alone two. They push their way through to the bar to give Flissa their order, and are intercepted by the woman herself. Sabriel spends half of the ensuing conversation trying to deflect Flissa’s devoted religious zeal, and the other half trying to make Varric stop laughing at her discomfort.

“You aren’t going to be any good at this if you can’t handle a few starry eyed maidens,” he criticizes her when they finally get their food – a bowl of warm oats each, flavored with nuts and dried berries – and leave the tavern. They walk, warming their hands on the bowls, back to Varric’s fire, and sit together on a log. “How will you kiss babies and offer your blessing if you can’t accept a single swoon?”

“Oh, stop it,” she grouses. “You’re telling me you’d like that?”

“Maker, no,” Varric admits with feeling. “I wouldn’t hit that with an arrow, much less sign up for it. Count me out.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she wonders. “I’m not a Herald of anything, but nobody wants to hear that.”

“Nobody will,” he asserts wisely. She looks over at him, and his face is clearly lost in thought. “You’re holy, until you’re not. Let’s hope we don’t get there.”

“Hm,” she says, and they subside, eating quietly. When they are finished, Varric wipes his palms on his trousers and stacks their bowls together.

“Are you ready for your tour?” he asks. “You’ve already met Flissa.”

“That I have,” Sabriel agrees.

“There’s the quartermaster, Threnn. She’s somebody, but she’s got some unpopular political views, so don’t ask about her personal life unless you’ve got some time on your hands. Used to work under Loghain, I guess – er, you wouldn’t know about him, would you?” At Sabriel’s blank look, he explains quickly. “Shitty guy, by all accounts, but a decent commander. Pulled his troops out at the last minute at the battle of Ostagar, everything went tits up, the King of Ferelden was killed on the field, and, and, and. It all shook out alright in the end, the Blight was ended, Queen Anora – his daughter, actually – has things pretty much under control. But still, he was a controversial guy. Threnn liked him, though, still does. And she doesn’t care that it makes her a pariah.”

“Okay – Quartermaster Threnn: don’t ask about Loghain.”

“You learn fast. Right, then there’s the blacksmith…uh, his name is Harritt, I think. Don’t know much about him, honestly, but he’s worth visiting if only because he’s the one who’s going to make your armor.” Sabriel nods, and Varric continues. “The herbalist is named Adan, he’s got a mean attitude but I like the guy – says what he means. We should probably see him first – he’s got a bit invested in you, actually: he and Solas worked day and night to keep you breathing.”

“Might as well get started,” Sabriel agrees. They swing by the Singing Maiden on their way over to the retaining wall and Varric returns their empty bowls. The tavern is still full, and Flissa is so busy she can barely spare her a blush before she escapes out the side door.

“Up this way,” Varric directs her, and he leads her up the steps. At the summit is a little courtyard bordered by three small cabins. Solas stands there, hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the Breach. At their approach, he looks over, and nods his head in greeting.

“Ah, the chosen of Andraste,” he intones. “A blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Varric snorts. “Is she riding in on a white steed?”

Solas looks at him, a hint of amusement pulling at his face, and then casts his gaze to the side. “I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly they are all extinct. Joke as you will, but such posturing can be necessary.” He looks back to Sabriel. “Every great war has its heroes,” he explains. “I’m just curious what kind you will be.”

“Hello Solas,” Sabriel greets him. “I expect we’ll all find out together.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “I expect we will.” He searches her eyes – for what, she cannot say. Whatever it is, he does not appear to find it, and he looks away again without comment. She glances at Varric, who shrugs and tilts his head toward the middle cabin. They might as well carry on.

“I will stay,” Solas decides abruptly. “At least until the Breach is closed.”

“Was that in question?” Sabriel wonders. He looks at her sharply.

“I am an apostate mage, surrounded by Chantry forces, in the middle of a civil war, and  _unlike_  you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

A  _civil war_? By the Charter, why wouldn’t Varric mention something like that? She glances down at him, trying to convey that he has a great deal of explaining to do without saying so outright. He’s ignoring her though, in favor of re-lacing his tunic. He must find Solas awfully boring.

“You came here to help, Solas,” Sabriel replies, remembering his introduction. “I won’t let them use that against you.”

The eyebrow he quirks at her is almost dismissive. “And how would you stop them?” he challenges.

“However I had to,” she counters. He seems taken aback. She didn’t mean to sound so curt, and she hastens to explain. “Solas, you saved my life – likely more than once by now. That is not a debt I will forget.”

His expression takes on a new layer, calculating. “Thank you,” he says at length, inclining his head carefully.

“You are welcome,” she responds.

Varric looks up as if he has just returned. “You ready?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Have a nice day, Solas,” she wishes him, and they take their leave.

“And you as well, Herald,” he says, his countenance furrowed in thought long after they disappear into Adan’s cabin.

A few days later, after she’s met over half the village and spent several hours trapped in strategy meetings of unnecessary length, she leaves Haven. The Seeker, Solas, and Varric accompany her, as well as a small contingent of scouts, and their destination is a region called the Hinterlands. They travel on the strong recommendation of the leadership council, which is to say: Cassandra, Josephine, Leliana, and the leader of the Inquisition’s army, a man named Cullen Rutherford. Despite their constant arguing, they all agreed that the best move they could make under their current circumstances was to send the Herald to meet with Mother Giselle in the war-torn region.

For weeks they travel down out of the Frostbacks, striking out across unfamiliar landscapes with Cassandra and, more often than not, Solas as their guides. By the time they begin to see hints of civilization in the Hinterlands, she feels she finally has a working grasp of her new surroundings. Her education regarding this strange new land is comprehensive along the way. Varric serves as a conversational godsend, prepared at any moment to offer an anecdote or a joke - and Sabriel is his ideal audience. Every story he begins offers in turn a dozen more tales, each one serving to amend her ignorance of the characters, the setting, the prelude, or the sequel. By asking questions about relevant current events, she can learn about Thedas and the people in it. Intermittently, and with as much subtlety as she can muster, she convinces him to explain the finer details of the world to her. He extrapolates on the civil war – which Sabriel learns is actually two civil wars: one between the mages and the templars, fought mostly in Ferelden, and a second raging on in neighboring Orlais, where loyalists to Empress Celene resist Grand Duke Gaspard’s violent claim on the throne.

More importantly, he never pushes her on the subject of her past again, and seems content to accept ‘amnesia’ as the source of her more telling questions. She thinks at length, and often, about the life she left behind, and wonders what is happing – in every sense: to her, to her father, to Touchstone, to Mogget… Try as she might, she cannot recall the events that led her to this foreign land. She sees similarities everywhere, but nothing is as it should be – without a doubt, this world is not her own. Worst of it all, she is apparently vital to it, torn by responsibilities only she can fulfill, bound to two lands, and lost between them both.

Worst of all, she is desperately afraid – and she has been since the Seeker asked her for a reason why she shouldn’t be put to the blade where she stood. For all Sabriel knows, she _was_ responsible for the explosion at the Conclave. Still, one thing she is certain about is that the people of this country do not take kindly to strange magic, or to mystery. For all that they need her now… She decides she had better not risk it – especially as ignorant as she still is. She holds her tongue, and hopes she isn’t digging herself a hole to fall in later.

At night, she reads from Cassandra’s copy of  _Tale of the Champion_  – which does actually have a knife-shaped hole through it – until she cannot hold her eyes open any longer. One such night in the foothills, after they have trekked all day and finally set up camp, she is reading. She has cast a faint Charter mark for light floating over her head so that she can see, and she remains oblivious to Solas’ careful scrutiny of her. Cassandra turns the spit, where a nug roasts, dripping fat on the fire, and Varric is polishing Bianca’s aiming mechanism. Solas sits apart from them all, whittling at a piece of wood, nothing about his easy posture indicating his watchfulness. The evening is peaceful, and crickets sing to each other in the grass as the sun sinks down behind the mountains, the last rays of light painting the sky a vivid purple. Sabriel turns a page, riveted, and gasps when she reads the final sentence of Act 1.

“Read something interesting?” Varric asks her innocently. She stares blankly at the page for a long moment, then dog-ears the tip and glares at him.

“Hawke’s brother!” she exclaims without extrapolation.

“Ah, yeah,” says Varric, subsiding somewhat and lacking in his usual gusto.

“Was that true?” she asks desperately. “Please say no.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He comforts her with a hand on her shoulder, heavy as it ever is, but with an extra grip through his fingertips. “It’s true.”

“Why?” she asks him, trying to understand. “Hawke…she loved her brother! She wouldn’t do that!”

“She had no choice,” Varric explains quietly. Cassandra was fiddling with something in her hands, maybe grass, or a leaf, and trying to look like she wasn’t listening. “The Blight takes everything it touches. There was no other way.”

“I don’t understand,” she says. “Surely there is a cure, or a medicine, or something!”

“The only cure is to become a Grey Warden. And they’re a …notoriously closed order.”

Sabriel shakes her head unhappily, and glances around the campfire, thinking about the stories Varric has told that take place during or allude to Blights. Nobody else looks anywhere near as distraught as she is, which tells her they’ve all long accepted the inevitability. Her shoulders slump and she shakes her head to herself.

“I’m going to bed,” she announces, and leaves them without waiting for a response. It takes hours for her to fall asleep, drifting in and out of a twilight consciousness while she listens to her companions talk quietly around the fire. When she finally slips into the Fade, she dreams uneasily of her father, and a pure white cat.

The next day’s dawn comes and goes, nearly overlooked, considering how overcast it is. The party barely manages to pack up camp before it begins to drizzle and then to storm.  They march through persistent rain for nearly three days, and seek shelter in caves during the nights.  Sometimes the caves are previously occupied – mostly by spiders, which were a great deal larger in Thedas than she had expected based on her experiences with spiders in Ancelstierre. Sometimes there were other people hidden away, refugees and the needy. Sabriel speaks with them, always, and tries to learn about their lives and their journeys. She had encountered so few people in the Old Kingdom, and when she did they had all been so wary and afraid. It was unsafe to travel there, with the Kingdom in the state that it was in, and villagers had nowhere to run to flee the Dead. Here, refugees fled their fellow humans - and the war they waged upon each other – long before they started fleeing the rifts.

In the afternoon of the fourth day after the rains began - a blessedly dry after an early, foggy morning – they reach the fighting. The Crossroads are a bloodbath, combatants throwing fire at each other and tripping over the stacked bodies of their comrades and their enemies combined. They descend into the fray without question, Cassandra entreating the templars to lay down their arms to no avail. The smell is potent and foul, and it is clear to Sabriel that these bodies were several days dead at the minimum. She will need to get closer if she wants to know for certain. The humidity of the afternoon only makes the stench more repulsive, but Sabriel will use the bodies to her advantage.

Solas is casting a barrier over the party while Cassandra, customarily, lets loose a roar that draws the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Varric has vanished from sight, likely using some rogue’s trick to melt into the shadows. Sabriel reaches for the Charter in the brief lull when everyone is staring in awe at Cassandra, and she thinks of the marks that she wants, holds them in her mind. It’s harder, here, without any Charter stones nearby or perhaps in the world at all. Like trying to use Charter magic in Ancelstierre, she has to put a little more effort into it. It feels like wading against a particularly strong stream, but in good time she has them. She lets them grow in her mind, then speaks the names for flame and combustion into her hand and then  _throws_ them onto the bodies. They ignite like they are dry tinder, rather than bodies that have been left out in the rain for days, and she whispers a prayer for their souls under her breath when they do. _Travel swiftly beyond the Ninth Gate,_ she urges them. _Do not stray._ The pyres burn fiercely, and the wind wafts the acrid smoke toward the men and women that still fight with blind rage, causing some to gag. They serve as choke points at first, funneling the combatants and forcing them to line up to engage Cassandra. Behind her, Varric looses a shot that flies clean through three fighters, and then joins her at her flank.

“That’s disgusting!” he comments cheerfully.

Cassandra cleaves through the last of them, but her backward glance stops Sabriel from fully lowering her guard. “This isn’t over,” the Seeker predicts, and forges her way through the choke point and deeper into the crossroads.

They follow her, Solas guarding their rear. He moves with his staff as an extension of himself, with a grace Sabriel watches with quiet envy. It is a part of the reason she continues to carry a sword and refuse a staff of her own, the other part being the inherent foolishness of attempting to familiarize oneself with a new weapon while in the middle of a warzone. She has already forced herself to become accustomed to carrying a shield, which is complicated enough. Of course, it’s because of the shield that she accidentally steps into the ice mine of one of the rebel mages. The cold bites her through her layers, gripping her legs tightly and interestingly making her skin feel like it is almost burning with it. Her struggle against the ice imprisoning her is futile, and in another heartbeat it grows to encase her arms and chest. She cries out against the pain.

A swirl of charged air circles her and presses her down, bending her into her knees slightly before she realizes the ice has melted away in a flash and freed her. She buckles before she can engage her muscles again, and she drops to her knees hard. She is panting as she recovers, and in the brief lull she rips her shield off her arm and lets it fall to the ground. The Seeker guts a rebel templar and comes to hold her hand out for Sabriel, who takes it gratefully and then draws her knife with her newly freed hand. She holds a longsword in one hand and a short blade in the other, and she looks formidable.

Cassandra throws back a restorative, and Sabriel looks around for the mage who had captured her briefly. Solas is fighting him now, and she watches him drop the other man to his knees with a surge of static lightning that also warns the women of an assailant creeping up just behind them. Cassandra challenges the rogue outright, while Sabriel runs to help Solas bear down against the mage. A bolt of lightning falls from the sky to strike the man squarely, but he fights on. She angles behind him to catch him by surprise, yet he manages to parry her strikes even as she feels her blade wearing through the soft wood of his staff. Her sword lodges into it, and she leaves it and strikes with her knife. It should have pierced his neck, but he moves a swift hand to his temple, brown eyes meeting hers briefly before she is flung bodily into the air, landing a few meters away dazed and winded.

She rolls over to her knees and then onto her feet, but she is unarmed: she’s let go her knife in the fall. A rough hand grabs her across her chest, pinning down her arms, and the mage is there behind her, holding her own knife to her throat. She grabs the blade with her gloved hand and shouts the Charter marks for golden blades of her own into her other hand. Thus armed, she stabs blindly behind her, catching the man in the shoulder and maybe even the lung, if the blood suddenly spraying onto her cheek is any indicator. His grip loosens, and she pushes him away, turning to finish him off. Before she has the chance, a blur passes her by, crisp like a winter wind. The mage staggers as it passes through him, and Solas materializes just beyond her. The mage, suddenly frosted through and stiff, falls over: dead.

Solas levels a look at her, one that includes the magic dagger she still wields in the incredulity. She does her best to mirror the expression back at him, trying to indicate his new trick. She holds her questions for later and assumes he does the same.  A call for help from Varric helps her find purpose for her blade. They are victorious, for the time being, and they stand panting and evaluating their losses. 

Cicadas buzz around her in the trees overhead, and the hot day drags on.  Many men and women are wounded, and sisters of the Chantry emerge from nearby homesteads and tend to them compassionately.  Slowly, over the course of hours, people begin to return to the Crossroads. Solas separates from them early on to aid where he can, while Varric blends seamlessly in among those less injured and made an effort to learn the conditions of the people.  Cassandra shadows her as usual – she has been keeping a watchful eye on Sabriel since they left Haven. Unexpectedly, though, when one of Leliana’s scouts jogs up to tell them that Mother Giselle has arrived, Cassandra elects to let her go and meet the Mother alone.

“I will go and coordinate with Corporal Vale,” she tells Sabriel, and pushes her towards the infirmary. Sabriel finds the woman determinedly convincing a young soldier to allow a mage to heal his wounds. Sabriel is reminded of the Border Crossing Scouts at the Wall, surrounded by magic and ignorant of it all the same.

“Mother Giselle,” Sabriel assumes when the woman has concluded her conversation, and the lady inclines her head magnanimously in affirmation.

“I am,” she agreed, and she placidly leads Sabriel away from eavesdroppers. “And you must be the one they are calling the herald of Andraste.”

Sabriel feels self-conscious before her.  She knows Leliana and Cassandra are both pious, but it is harder for her to think of them in a purely religious capacity.  “Not through any choice of mine,” she assures the Mother.  Giselle chuckles warmly, if wryly.

“We seldom have much choice in our fate, I’m sad to say.”

“So you agree with them?”  Sabriel asks somewhat incredulously.

“I don’t presume to know the Maker’s intentions, for any of us.  But I did not ask you here simply to debate with me.”

“Then why am I here?”

“I know of the Chantry’s denouncement,” Mother Giselle begins.  She leads Sabriel even further away as she describes the state of the Chantry and danger that lingers with the vacancy of power after the death of the Divine.  Varric had given her a basic explanation of the Chantry, but Giselle’s insight lends a much more realistic representation of the state of affairs. The picture she paints is one of ordinary and terrified people.

“With no Divine, each of us is left to our own conscience.” Mother Giselle concludes. “And mine tells me this: go to them.  Convince the remaining clerics you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you…you must give them something else to believe.”


End file.
